


Golden Prize

by hasbean



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Durincest, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Revenge, but Dáin struggles a bit at the end there, everyone survives fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hasbean/pseuds/hasbean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally posted on the LJ Kink Meme:</p>
<p>Post BotFA, Thorin, Fili and Kili are all alive and healthy, celebrating the reclaiming of Erebor. </p>
<p>Dáin is jealous, so he takes what he can of the prize Thorin holds even more dear than the Lonely Moutain. Enter Thorin's pure rage, as Fili is his (dwarf possessiveness and all that...). And sexiness. Mmyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ Kink Meme in response to my own prompt. Please take note of the warnings, though this is far from explicit. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, any mistakes are on my own head.

 

‘Brother, how can you just sit there?’

Fili looked up from timeworn paper, pages of the book in his hand – an old thing taken from Erebor’s library and given to him by Balin – to watch his younger sibling. Kili rolled onto his stomach, his limbs akimbo atop the bed of the King, looking mussed and petulant.

‘I’m reading.’ He replied at length.

‘Like that explains anything.’ Kili countered.

‘Just because you’re too dense to understand the merits of education…’

For his words, Fili received a decorated pillow thrown in in his direction. He’d grown up dodging faster, more dangerous things, however, and it was easily avoided, falling upon the stone floor and sliding across its smooth surface. Turning another page, the older heir of Durin continued,

‘If you’re so bored, go and greet our kin from the Iron Hills – they just arrived this morn.’

He didn’t need to look up again to know Kili’s expression had turned to a grimace, but he did so anyway as his brother’s sour face was ever amusing.

‘No, I think I’d rather be bored here than bored with those surly old gargoyles.’

Fili clucked his tongue once, closing his book upon a thin piece of leather to keep his place. Balin expected him to read it, and it was not so horrid; just difficult to concentrate on when dealing with whining younger brothers.

‘Uncle would scold you if he heard you speaking with such disrespect.’

‘Uncle thinks as little of them as I do.’ Kili was quick to assert. 

Fili shrugged, unable to dispute it.

Relaxing back into his chair – a heavy thing, carved from a rare oak with an overcomplicated name, padded and made soft by furs and the travelling coat his uncle had rarely had cause to wear in the past months – Fili watched his squirming brother as he sat up. The single braid that Thorin had woven into his hair earlier, attempting to make him that bit more presentable for the stuffy company they would share that night, had all but come loose, Kili’s soft, dark locks framing his face in the usual wild mess. It was quite a feat, really – Fili knew his uncle’s braids from experience, and they were not easily loosened, even when it was one’s goal. Their uncle would scowl when he saw it and tell the youngest to behave for once, to stop acting like a child, but would then undoubtedly be placated by Kili’s doe-brown eyes and sweet kisses.

‘This celebration tonight,’ Fili was brought back to the present by his brother’s voice, ‘do you think it shall be merry?’

‘Aye, or else it would not be a celebration, would it?’

Kili shook his head sharply, further undoing the King Under the Mountain’s hard work.

‘You know what I mean, brother. Do you think we shall have the usual dancing and music and laughter, or shall we be expected to remain in our seats and talk about our accomplishments as descendants of the great line of Durin?’ His voice dropped at the end of the sentence, attempting to imitate the gruff, official and haughty tone of Dáin II Ironfoot.  

Fili could not help but laugh at this, and his mirth at least had Kili beaming once more. It was not proper, he supposed, to joke about the Lord of the Iron Hills in such a disrespectful manner but his brother was not unreasonable in his concerns. They’d met him, once or twice, through their uncle; Thorin, even during the difficulties of exile, having been fastidious in his care of his, and his peoples’, relations with the other dwarves of Middle Earth. They had travelled to the Iron Hills after they’d both reached majority, to be properly introduced as Thorin’s heirs and chosen consorts. What would have been a warm welcome and joyous meeting if received in Ered Luin instead was stilted, formal and all-together droll.

‘I’ll concede our last meeting with him was not much fun, but it was a darker time,’ Fili got to his feet, crossing the room to sit beside his brother, brushing back the shorter strands of hair that fell over his forehead, ‘I am sure it will be better tonight.’

Kili was grinning when he leaned forward to bump their noses together before stealing a chaste kiss, and Fili found even he felt heartened.   

 

* * *

  

Kili could only remain idle for so long, despite his increasing excitement about the night ahead, and soon left the room after establishing his brother would not spar with him. It was not that Fili did not want to join his brother, but that week had seen heavy rain plague the lands of the east and the cold damp affected him badly in the days after the Battle of the Five Armies. His wounds had not been life threatening – most of them had happened early on, and he had fought despite them – but a wound at his shoulder and the damaged bones of his knee had come to ache when the weather was cold. Fili never spoke of it, and Kili noticed little other than that the rain made his brother surly, but Thorin knew. And so Fili remained cautious, nursing his pains if for no other reason than for his beloved uncle’s peace of mind, hoping he would make a full recovery with time.

Fili meant to return to his book but his concentration was shot and his idleness seemed more uncomfortable than even the strenuous exercise Kili had requested. He rose with nary a grimace – stubbornness, practice – and pulled on his boots, shedding his comfortable wool jerkin for something heavier and more presentable. He could have joined his brother in one of the many vast training halls but it was unlikely he’d be able to avoid participating, so instead the young heir of Durin’s feet took him to the chambers of council, where the King Under the Mountain spent most of his day.

Balin offered him a kind smile as Fili approached, obviously on his way out with an armful of scrolls, still seemingly damp with ink.

‘He is inside, laddie. Go on through.’

The younger dwarf waited until Balin had passed before stepping into the massive room that saw most important decisions made by the King Under the Mountain. Its ceiling was high enough that the light of candles and braziers could not reach, impressive in its scale and lavish dwarven decorations. At the end of a long stone table that served as the room’s centerpiece sat Thorin and Dáin, along with other dwarves that Fili did not recognise. The heir of Durin momentarily considered retreating from whence he came, not wishing to intrude, but his entry had not gone unnoticed.

‘Surely that cannot be your sister-son, cousin. He is much grown since last I saw him.’

Thorin turned his head to the doorway and Fili was treated to a slight softening of hard features, the ghost of a gentle smile that was usually reserved for private moments.

‘Aye, you are not mistaken. Fili, come sit with us a moment.’

Though Dáin sat in Fili’s traditional place to his King’s right, one of the dwarves of the Iron Hills quickly vacated the seat at Thorin’s left, which he took without question. Had it been different company – Balin, or simply more familiar dwarves – the young heir of Durin may have taken his uncle’s hand in his, or gone so far as to press a kiss to his bearded cheek, but under Dáin’s gaze, Fili felt inexplicably paralyzed.

‘How you have grown, young one… how many years have you passed now?’

His mouth felt dry, his tongue like it was too big for his mouth. The young dwarf was quiet, the answer to such a simple question suddenly shrouded and obscure in his mind. The Lord of the Iron Hills raised a bushy eyebrow, greyed like the rest of the hair that covered him, and Fili forced himself to speak, thankful that his voice came out strong, without wavering.  

‘Eighty-three with the coming spring, my lord.’

One of the other dwarves chortled, smacking his palm against the top of the stone table.

‘A grown dwarf, yet pretty as a maid, he is!’

Laughter rippled throughout the assembled dwarves, only three failing to join in on the merriment; Fili abashed, Thorin stoic and Dáin seemingly unnoticing, too busy watching the young dwarf in question. It was short lived, if nothing else, and Dáin’s men went quiet – whether because the joke had passed or the lack of response from their host and lord was impossible to tell.

‘He has grown fine indeed, Thorin,’ the Lord of the Iron Hills met Fili’s eye as he spoke, and the youngest had to steel himself to not look away, ‘a golden prize in his own right.’

After that, the conversation progressed down other paths and Fili was nothing if not grateful for it. It soon came time to ready for the festivities of the evening, the dwarves of the Iron Hills bowing and dispersing from the council chamber.

Thorin turned to his nephew when they were alone, taking his hands and coaxing the younger dwarf from his seat. Fili eagerly climbed atop his uncle, comfortably straddling his thighs and using the ideal position to take a kiss. The smile his uncle hadn’t allowed earlier was warm and affectionate when they pulled apart.

‘They are crass, but correct.’

The young heir of Durin hummed curiously but did not speak, distracted with enjoying the sensation of his uncle’s coarse beard against his own softer facial hair. A gentle grip at the back of his neck pulled him back a moment later. Thorin’s gaze flicked from Fili’s eyes to his mouth.

‘For you are _stunning_.’

They ended up having to hurry back to the King’s chamber to dress for dinner so as not to be late and were greeted by Kili’s rebukes.    

 

* * *

 

The great halls of Erebor had not seen such a celebration in centuries, and any concerns about a dour evening were quickly quashed. What the dwarves of the Iron Hills brought in traditionalist tedium, Thorin’s company and the slowly growing population of Erebor more than made up for in enthusiasm and jubilation. With the introduction of ale early into the night, things only became more raucous, even Dáin’s men relaxing as the moon progressed higher into the sky.

Fili drained the rest of his flagon after a toast – to something ridiculous and barely audible over music and slurred speech, but a toast was a toast – was shouted from the end of the table he sat at before pushing the wooden mug away and leaning back in his chair. The rest of the company, dotted about the hall, all healthy and merry warmed something in his chest, past the artificial heat of being well on the way to drunkenness. There had been times, in the past months, where he had doubted that it could ever end so perfectly – that they could achieve victory, and celebrate it together.

Across the room, the King conversed with his advisor and general; Balin, Dwalin and Thorin speaking with familiar ease and calm born of great accomplishment and reward. The King Under the Mountain was a sight to behold, his dark hair pulled back in thick, elaborate braids, dressed in the rich garb of a great ruler, Thror’s ornate ravens-crown atop his brow. Fili and Kili had set it there that night, threading thick, dark hair into neat rows before pressing twin kisses above bright blue eyes. Kili, hair free and wild, sat to his uncle’s right – ever quick to take his brother’s seat the moment the blonde vacated it – with Ori, Bofur and Bilbo, laughing and drinking and Fili considered joining them, but his head spun and, despite the warmth of the dining hall, his shoulder ached with a keen agony that night.

He decided to take a walk, get away from the noise a moment, and if Fili let the pain show on his face as he pushed the heavy doors open on his way out, he hoped his kin were too occupied or drunk to notice. 

 

* * *

  

The music only faded as far as the massive throne room, with its plummeting depths that, so soon after Erebor’s reclamation, were still deathly silent and pitch black. A handful of braziers and torches were lit, enough to make visible the paths in front of wandering dwarves’ feet, and the throne, newly recouped.

Fili approached the great chair of his lineage, trailing his fingers over the tall, icy stone suddenly foreboding in the darkness, alone.

‘It becomes your uncle, that throne… solid and unflinching, but cold.’

The young heir of Durin spun sharply, immovable stone pressing into the small of his back as he stepped back.

Dáin stood on the second stair of the platform that lifted the king above his subjects, but how he got there, undetected, was a mystery to Fili. Why he suddenly felt so vulnerable alone with one of his kin was equally enigmatic, but it did not stop his gut from roiling.  

‘I do not think you know him very well at all, my lord, if you would describe him as such.’

Some instinct, deep in the recesses of his mind, urged Fili into action – to push past Dáin and return to the celebration, to the safety of his uncle, brother and friends – but something louder, brasher and younger held him firm. A prince, an heir of Durin, did not flee for the protection of others the moment he was insecure.

Fili stayed, and the Lord of the Iron Hills ascended another step.

‘I know Thorin more than well, young one, after all these years,’ the final step was mounted and suddenly they were of a height, ‘even better than you.’

Dáin’s hand – thick fingered, large and calloused from fighting longer than Fili had been breathing – came to rest at the nape of the young prince’s neck, before trailing upwards to cup his lightly furred jaw. Fili refrained from jerking away and, as a result, the older dwarf undoubtedly felt him swallow, hard and dry.

When a rough thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, he hoped the way his upper lip curled in disgust was not too overt of a reaction.

‘I have known him through his darkest days… and I see that darkness in him still.’

The Lord of the Iron Hills moved closer as he spoke, his fingers vice-like against Fili’s skull, holding him still as dark eyes examined his face, filled with something that the blonde was frightened to acknowledge.

‘Yet, ever does he outdo me… even with his arrogance, his stubbornness… his _greed_.’

Fili could not stifle the noise he omitted – a cry of disgust, of protest – when Dáin’s thumb pressed between his lips and teeth, nor did he hesitate to bite down upon the invading digit. The older dwarf quickly removed his hand before bringing it back sharply against Fili’s cheek and jaw with strength enough to send the heir of Durin staggering back into the throne behind him. Pain blossomed up the side of his face and his already aching shoulder connecting with hard stone had dark spots appearing before his eyes. Then, Dáin’s fingers were grabbing the tight braids at the side of his skull, wrenching his head to hit rock once, twice, thrice.

Fili could feel blood trickling from his temple, over his brow and down the side of his face. He could feel Dáin’s hands clawing up his legs and, with sickening clarity, the fingers at the ties of his breeches.

‘You think him so noble, so _infallible_ , but his greed permeates everything and you do not see it, too busy spreading your legs for him.’

Fili kicked out, connecting with Dáin’s jaw. The Lord of the Iron Hills snarled, quick to move his hand beneath the ties he was attempting to undo and taking the young prince’s soft cock in a crushing grip. Fili choked on a cry, hating the hot, salty tears in his eyes almost as much as the Lord of the Iron Hills that loomed over him.

 

By the time Dáin released him, naked, shaking and bloody, bruised face pressed to the cold stone of his beloved uncle’s throne, Fili had no tears and no voice, hoarse from the screams he could not stifle when the Lord of the Iron Hills had pushed into him. He heard the sounds of clothing being pulled on and adjusted, and moments later the older dwarf’s hand against his back had him quivering with renewed intensity while the lips at his ear made him retch.

Fili knew Dáin’s voice would haunt him the rest of his days.

‘You will see one day, you poor, sweet thing… you will realise how fleeting his affection for you is…’

He did not have the strength to pull from the fingers that wound through his hair, dull and damp with sweat.

‘For all you are to him is a prize… a pretty thing to sate ugly greed… to sate his _gold-lust_.’

Then the hands were gone, Dáin’s footfalls heavy, echoing throughout the throne room as he disappeared down dark halls.

Erebor had never felt colder. 

 

* * *

  

Fili lost track of how long he lay at the foot of his king’s throne, shivering and in pain he had never before known. Only the fear of discovery, of a patrolling guard coming across him, naked and _weak_ forced him into action. Moving was agony but Fili steeled himself, pulling on his clothes that were mercifully unsoiled and attempting to fix the matted mess of his hair.

With his hands shaking so, the young heir of Durin was unable to do anything more than ruin his braids further, one silver clasp falling from his trembling fingers to skid across stone and fall down into the deep abyss of the mines.

He moved without truly registering his direction, walked the halls with his head held high despite how it throbbed, and how he wanted to do nothing more than curl back up on the ground and never again move. But it was not safe – the halls, the rooms deep in the mountain, even the chamber he shared with his uncle and brother that would be empty, nowhere could offer him solace, so he sought those who could. Ego and pride had long given way to fear. Even the chance of seeing Dáin again, so soon, did not deter him and soon he was upon the heavy wooden doors of the great hall.

The celebration had not dimmed – if anything, it had increased – so Fili’s entry went as unnoticed as his exit had. Most of the dwarves had moved throughout the night but Thorin and Kili were still at the head of the centre table and before he could reconsider, Fili forced himself forward. He ached, could feel blood – and other, far more repugnant fluids – trailing down the backs of his thighs, and when he finally stood between the two he loved most, his hands shook violently. He felt faint, but stubbornness – and what little pride he could say he had left – forced him to lock his knees and grit his teeth.

‘Fili!’ Kili’s smile was broad enough to bring out sweet dimples and Fili’s heart ached.

Thorin turned in his seat at the exclamation, brow quirked as he faced his eldest nephew. Fili did not know what his uncle saw there then – had purposefully avoided seeing in the tall mirrors that lined long halls – but it hardened his jaw and creased his brow. When he spoke, his voice was low and tremulous.

‘What happened to you, my dear one?’ Calloused fingers – familiar and comforting and _Thorin’s_ – traced his jaw, bruised flesh hot and prickling with pain.

The young heir of Durin felt his brother take his hand, noted Kili and Thorin sharing an unsettled glance before returning their attention to him. Fili couldn’t find his voice to respond, shaking his head as his lips worked fruitlessly. He had thought his humiliation complete – had thought he could feel no more shame, no more indignity – but found himself proved woefully wrong when Kili’s hand gripped his tighter, his voice abnormally high, alarmed.

‘Uncle… Thorin, he is _bleeding_ …!’

Tears, hot and hateful and utterly unwelcome streaked down his cheeks, his face flushed as Thorin pressed a hand against the material at the backs of Fili’s thighs, coming back damp with blood. Bringing it to his nose, Thorin’s anger changed into something horrible at the smell like copper.

Fili managed a word, a half-sob as the King Under the Mountain rose to his feet.

‘ _Dáin_.’

A strong arm wrapped around his waist, holding him close – and upright, as his legs felt prone to give way at any time – and Fili only just refrained from pressing his face against his uncle’s chest like a scared child. He felt as much as heard Thorin’s bellow.

**_‘Du Bekâr!’_ **

Kili’s earlier exclamation – high with fear and horror – had drawn the attention of most of the great hall and, as a result, they stood informed. The dwarves of Erebor were quick to turn upon their Iron Hills kin, ever loyal and rapidly furious. Those who found themselves weaponless grabbed knives, skews and other implements that would deal pain all the same. Outnumbered, Dáin’s men – and Dáin himself, who had been sitting quietly far off to one side of the hall – surrendered with little fanfare.

Thorin’s eyes were trained on his cousin, the hand not on Fili’s waist, holding him firm, raised and pointed accusingly at the older dwarf.

‘Dwalin.’

Dwalin, who had been on his feet, kicking his chair against an opposite table to allow for unobstructed combat the moment Thorin had issued his order, stood rigid and battle-ready, awaiting his king’s command.

‘Bring him to me.’

Fili’s attention was drawn from the scene – heard, instead of saw Dwalin’s easy dispatching of Dáin’s guard – by gentle lips against his brow, Kili’s breath shaky and uneven against his skin. Dark eyes were moist at the corners, visible concern writ all over his delicate, pretty features. Fili wanted to comfort him, like big brothers were meant to. Thorin pressed his own kiss against the top of his nephew’s head before relinquishing his hold on Fili’s waist, striding to where Dáin was then held on his knees. Kili encouraged him to sit and he did, though gingerly. His little brother brought another chair closer so that they sat with their legs practically entwined, bringing their brows into contact.

‘Don’t worry, Fili… we’ll look after you…’

Thorin’s fist hit Dáin’s mouth with enough force to have him spitting out discoloured teeth. He wasn’t given time to recover before a sharp kick to his stomach had him doubled over.

Kili was hesitant to kiss his brother’s mouth – his brow furrowed, fingers restless as they stroked bloody and scraped palms – but Fili did not recoil, letting out the breath he was only half conscious of holding at the tentative brush of lips against his own. It was the last thing he knew before his eyes slid closed and darkness consumed his mind.     

 

* * *

_Du Bekâr - 'To arms!'_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then things get worse for Dáin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is when characterisation gets a bit fuzzy, and there is a lot of introspection. Enjoy? :D

Fili awoke to the sound of voices and Kili’s breath against the back of his neck, his brother tucked close against him and asleep. It was impossible to tell in the depths of Erebor but it felt late – late enough that the halls were empty and most respectable dwarves were long retired. The room and bed were familiar and recognizable – his, theirs – even in the dim lights.

‘I understand your anger, laddie, we all do. What Dáin has done is unforgivable.’

Balin, ever respectable and sensible Balin, was seated in the tall-backed oak chair that Fili often read in. He looked tired, like he felt his extensive age that night. Thorin leant against the stone that framed the room’s hearth, watching slowly burning embers that suggested to Fili he had been asleep quite a while.

‘Yet you would stay my hand.’

‘He is a lord with a far more established force than ours, at this point in time. Dáin does not deserve clemency, but you need to practice it all the same… he must be treated as his station demands.’

Even in the darkness, despite the distance between them, Fili could see Thorin’s fists clench, could see him bare his teeth in a way that could have been a smile if it wasn’t so hostile.

‘Do not worry, Balin. I will make sure that the pike I mount his head upon is of fine quality.’

Balin sighed, a heavy expulsion of breath that seemed to have him shrinking into himself in the face of his king’s belligerence.

‘And if we go to war, how will you protect your boys then?’

‘They will not be safe as long as Dáin lives; he has proven to me as much this night. He will take what he can of mine, without regret or remorse.’

Balin’s voice was flat as he watched Thorin, though the son of Thrain did not meet his eye as if expecting and not wishing to face his next words. 

‘He claims it was consensual… that the lad wanted it.’

The noise Thorin made in the back of his throat was low and dangerous but his old friend did not appear reproved or concerned, continuing.

‘Dáin will argue this point, and some will believe it… others will simply disapprove of his punishment because he is who he is – because younglings should obey their elders.’

Fili felt sick – sicker, even, as his stomach had still felt tied in knots the moment he awoke, even hours later – as he listened. It was insult to injury, the worst kind of injustice and lie, and yet the smallest slither of doubt niggled in the back of his mind. Insidious whispers of the perhaps – _perhaps you led him on perhaps you could have fought harder perhaps you liked it perhaps it was what you wanted all along_ – and Fili felt bile in the back of his throat. Had he betrayed his king in some way? Had he betrayed Kili, caused him such concern because he was selfish and desired improper things?

Thorin’s voice broke him from his reverie.

‘Lords should respect kings, and their consorts. Ever has he coveted what is mine, what was given to me through birthright.

‘The only support offered by Dáin was when I was knee-deep in filth, making fine weapons for mortal peasants and fashioning wares fit only for horses. He never wished for me to reclaim Erebor; that much he showed when his support vanished upon learning of our quest. Now, in the wake of my success, he would come here, to _my kingdom,_ and violate and then defame the word of _my_ _consort_. I will not stand for this, Balin.’

Balin was silent a long while, leant forward, elbows on his knees and fingers interweaved in front of his mouth.

‘You run the risk of bringing more pain and hardship to those you love in pursuing this path, Thorin.’

Whatever response the King Under the Mountain had to give was lost as Fili sat up, drawing the attention of the older dwarves in the room. He still ached, but the young heir of Durin forced himself to sit tall. Thorin crossed the room without hesitation, sitting on the edge of the mattress and taking Fili’s hands in his own. Any worry he had harbored that Dáin’s words, Dáin’s denial of wrong-doing, had influenced his uncle, made him question or wonder, quickly dissipated when he saw Thorin’s face properly, saw the warmth, concern and love in his expression. Fili took a deep breath, tried to sound more confident than he felt – than he thought he could ever feel again.

‘Attempting to assure you both that we do not need protection… I’m not going to be able to do such a thing tonight, am I?’

Balin chuckled at this, but it was a hollow sound and whilst Thorin smiled, it was weak and resembled more of a grimace.

‘No, dear one, not tonight.’

Fili turned his uncle’s hand over, tracing meaningless patterns over a worn palm. It gave him something to look at that weren’t Thorin’s dark, concerned eyes, or Balin’s sympathetic expression.  

‘… what of Dáin?’

Dry but soft lips pressed against his brow and Fili didn’t understand why it made tears prickle at the backs of his eyes. The room went silent save for Kili’s soft breaths, in and out, as he slept, none of the dwarves seeming eager to break it, to explain. Thorin spoke at length, after long moments watching Fili’s fingertips against his palm. 

‘He is locked up for the night… well guarded.’

‘And what will happen to him?’

He did not watch, and did not see, but knew Thorin and Balin exchanged meaningful looks at this question. Fili lay down once more, scooting back against Kili’s warmth as he simultaneously attempted to pull Thorin with him. The king went without protest, tugging heavy covers over them as Balin rose to his feet.

‘He will be dealt with in the morn, laddie. Until then, rest.’

Balin left the room, extinguishing candles as he went, leaving only the soft glow of embers in the fireplace lighting the room. Fili tucked his head against Thorin’s chest, vaguely registering fingers combing through his hair.

He was tired, still. Emotionally and physically exhausted, wanted nothing more than sleep and blissful unconsciousness during the few hours before dawn.

Sleep only reached him when the sun was peaking over the horizon, when the world was waking up to begin the day.

 

* * *

 

The morning saw rain plaguing the mountain, the Desolation of the Dragon – dragon fire ensuring that greenness and life would only return to the land surrounding the Lonely Mountain and Dale with long years, land still barren and inhospitable – becoming little more than mud and bracken. Heavy winds pelted the Front Gate and its battlements, the sharp chill permeating aged stone, to the very heart of Erebor.

The hearth was still burning low when Fili awoke for the umpteenth time since he had lain down, and it was barely enough to keep the chamber properly warm. The throbbing in his head was dull by then – undoubtedly aided by the strange-tasting water he had reached for throughout the night, probably from Oin – and most of his pains had dimmed to mere discomfort.

His heart hurt, and his stomach was tight, but that would not pass any time soon, he surmised.    

‘You’re awake…’

Kili was on the other side of the room, fastening the ties of his tunic, his hair wild enough to insinuate he had only recently pulled himself from bed. Fili sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, sharp pain flaring in his jaw at the touch.

‘What time is it?’

The moment the younger dwarf had finished dressing, he returned to his brother’s side, sitting on the soft mattress beside Fili.

‘Almost midday… you needed the rest, so we didn’t rouse you.’

Kili’s had soft fingers; calloused differently to his own, and to Thorin’s from years perfecting the bow and away from hot forges. They carded through Fili’s hair, pushing golden locks back from his face before pulling them all together and fastening them with a silver clip that had been hanging limply, having come loose in the night. The touch was comforting and Fili didn’t hesitate in taking one of his brother’s hands before it withdrew, bringing it to his lips and kissing the centre of his palm. Kili looked surprised for just a moment – as if it was not something his brother did regularly – before he smiled. He looked relieved, even, ducking forward to rest their foreheads together.

‘Uncle said to be careful… that you might be… uncomfortable with too much contact…’

The relief made sense, all of a sudden, and Fili tried not to think too hard; not to think about what that meant, if he should have been more repulsed by the thought of touch, if it meant _something_ that all he wanted was his beloved brother and uncle close.

He had no words to explain with, so Fili did not explain.

‘Where is he?’

Kili, despite his proclivity to being a nosy brat at the best of times, either knew not to question further or thought nothing of it. His fingers returned to his brother’s hair as one of the braids above his ears slipped free, tugging its twin to do the same.   

‘Dáin’s trial has begun… we can go, if you feel up to it.’

Fili nodded once and rose to his feet, dressing in court clothes and a heavy coat. If Kili saw the blades he slipped into the backs of his soft leather boots, he didn’t say anything. Approaching the mirror and basin to wash his face, the young heir of Durin faltered at the sight of dappled, angry bruising up the side of his face and across his temple. His lower lip was split, though it did not pain him, and there was dark bruising beneath his eyes that spoke of head trauma and restless sleep. The shadow of a bite mark – fresh and angry – was just visible above the collar of his shirt and would have been hidden if his hair was down but Fili lacked the energy to properly comb out and braid his unruly mane that day, even with his brother’s help, and instead tugged the material as high as it would go.

He looked a mess.

‘We don’t have to,’ Kili said, brow furrowed as he examined Fili’s appearance in the mirror’s reflection, ‘Thorin will take care of it. We can just stay here, and you can rest.’

Fili worried that, one day, all the pain and anguish of his life would creep upon him, hollow him out and ruin him. The tragedy of his lineage, the pain of his uncle – his lover, king, husband – the loss suffered by his mother, the death of his father, his own past wounds and, then, Dáin. He feared he would buckle, or strive so dedicatedly to remain strong that he would forgo other things, to keep emotions at arms length. He dreaded weakness, just as he dreaded amorality.

So when he steeled himself to face down the one that had hurt him, the one that made his hands shake and his throat dry, he made sure to keep Kili close and take heart in the fact that he would ensure, if nothing else, that Dáin never got another taste of the line of Durin.

 

* * *

 

The chambers of council, where Dáin’s trial occurred – as all trials of dwarves were held in Erebor, in secret, in darkness, behind miles of stone – were crowded. It seemed Dáin II Ironfoot’s hearing was to be witnessed by all the dwarves of Erebor, those unable to fit inside taking residence in the halls, awaiting a verdict.

Thorin’s ruling would resonate within the dwarf community for centuries; would set a precedent, for good or bad.

Fili wanted to shrink into himself, or perhaps even run, upon seeing the crowd that would have to be navigated to get inside, but Kili’s hand was quick to take his and it gave him some strength. Strength enough, at least, to straighten his back and keep him moving forward. The crowd parted, upon recognizing those that moved through it, and they soon found themselves at the front of the assembly.

Dáin knelt bound and beaten on cold stone, flanked by Dwalin and Gloin. He turned at their approach, met Fili’s eye before a tattooed hand wrenched his head forward once more.

The blonde dwarf heir considered staying to the side, hiding within the mass of faces so that he was not seen, did not _see_ , but something inside of him was not content with that. Some part of him wanted to see everything.

Thorin sat upon a great stone chair at the front of the chambers and beside him Balin occupied a lesser seat. Kili did not hesitate in joining them, steps confident and head held high as he came to stand before the King and his counsel. Fili followed. He tried to seem as composed.

‘Fili wishes to see.’

Thorin looked up at the words, his brow creased and for a moment, in the face of his king’s obvious discontent, Fili regretted his decision to attend. The son of Thrain rose to his feet and Fili had never felt more aware of the difference in their height, their build and their experience. He trusted Thorin as he trusted Kili – on par with no one else – but, in that moment, he felt fear. He felt the fear that had not left him since that night, channeled in a way that scared him anew.

It was with great willpower that Fili remained still as Thorin stood before him, then soft lips pressed against his own and everything seemed to crumble within him. Despite those who watched, the young heir of Durin fisted his hands in his uncle’s coat and leant forward, eyes closed tight. Thorin’s fingers traced the line of his jaw, one hand moving to his bicep and holding him still longer than was appropriate, even in his own court.

Even Balin, ever proper Balin, said nothing of it.

The King Under the Mountain pulled back after long moments only to take another kiss, chaste but tender a breath later, then led Fili to the chair he had vacated. The assemblage remained silent throughout the exchange – whether out of respect for Erebor’s royal consorts or fear of reprisal was impossible to tell – and Thorin only turned back to them whence he was confident of his first consort’s comfort, and after greeting Kili with a briefer meeting of lips, though it was no less fond.    

By the time Thorin’s gaze returned to Dáin, however, any affection or cordiality fled in place of something furious and uncompromising.

‘I have been advised to show you lenience, Dáin Ironfoot,’ the King Under the Mountain moved to tower over the Lord of the Ironhills, ‘to avoid conflict between our peoples and to keep our kin out of needless warfare. Know that, were it not for your station and the likelihood of your people desiring retribution, I would have had your head the night you touched him.

‘It is my right, as king and as a husband, to kill you where you stand for laying your hands upon my own. You must think me a right fool, expecting I would believe that he would come to you of his own accord. You must have thought me a true fool when you chose to return to my halls, to show your face to me.’

Orcrist was drawn with only the hiss of steel against scabbard before it rested at the back of Dáin’s neck. The blade was sharp enough to leave a thin line of red with only the slightest pressure and Fili sat forward in his seat.

‘And yet, they say to me _clemency_.’

When Dáin spoke, his head stayed bowed and his voice was uncharacteristically timorous. It, Fili mused, was a true fool that would speak so vehemently against a perceived blackness in one’s character then proceed to wrong them. Perhaps, he considered, that was why the old lord’s hands trembled every so faintly.

‘I would request this of you as well, cousin… think not ill of me for being unable to abstain from youthful beauty.’ Dáin shifted on his knees, gaining purchase on hard stone so he could extend his bound hands forward in supplication.

‘We are a covetous people, you yourself taking two consorts where most only take one, refusing to compromise on your desires, refusing to repent for what you desire… do not damn me for the weakness that runs inherent in our blood… grant me clemency, Thorin.’

A hand rested on Fili’s shoulder at that moment, though it was not his brother’s, Kili having left his side to stand by his uncle the moment steel met Dáin’s sweat-damp skin. It was Balin’s, gnarled but strong, and the older dwarf squeezed muscle and flesh lightly as he managed a smile of dubious consolation.

Fili knew then that there would be no mercy in that chamber. Not from Thorin Oakenshield, nor Kili, son of Dís.

Orcrist sung as it cut through the cool air of Erebor’s council chambers and, for a moment, it seemed the only noise in the vast, cavernous room. It only quieted when it hit flesh, tendon and bone, cutting clean through Dáin’s forearm, leaving him howling.

‘I will show you clemency, Dáin,’ when Thorin spoke, he spoke with fire and hatred, his voice pitched low and coarse with rage, ‘I will treat you as a thief, not a rapist. I take one of the hands that took from me, and I offer the other to my Kili, who has suffered equally from your greed.’

Within moments of the amputation, Dáin seemed to possess no colour – it all running out as copper-smelling blood from the stump of his arm. His severed hand, still bound to the one Dáin yet possessed, hung limp and near comical from thick rope.

Balin exhaled heavily beside Fili the moment Kili stepped forward, his own blade drawn and an expression on his face so like their uncle that it twisted the blonde’s gut in some inexplicable way. The lack of hesitation – the rage, the readiness to injure – was gratifying and Fili wondered if Dáin’s screams should have bothered him more. He wondered if he should have felt something more than nothing.  

Those that had assembled to witness were deafening, clamoring and riotous as blood stained stone and Fili had never quite felt as at home in Erebor as when he recognised they screamed not in protest but with their vehement approval.

What a bloodthirsty people they were.

When Thorin turned to face his eldest nephew, Dáin was doubled over in agony as his lifeblood left him in streams. He would not last long without medical attention, and even then, infection would still prove a very prominent risk. Thorin extended his hand out to Fili and the young heir of Durin rose to join his king, accepting Orcrist as it was proffered to him.

‘I have shown you clemency, _cousin_ , and you were not wrong to fear my wrath, but ever you prove yourself unseeing. You are a fool that, even after so long, does not understand the subtleties of power,’ Thorin smiled, a baring of teeth that was part amusement, part bloodlust, ‘of _marriage_.’

Fili had understood the option he would be presented with the moment Thorin passed him his sword and anger, resentment and _fear_ seemed to weigh upon elvish steel until it felt impossible to heft.

‘I have passed my judgment, but it is not I who will decide your ultimate fate, Dáin Ironfoot. That I give to my Fili. This way, I show my clemency.’

Dáin – his violator, the bringer of his devastation – had barely the energy to raise his head, but he managed somehow. Fili met his eye and he felt nothing.

 

* * *

 

Spring had come to the Lonely Mountain, warm and bright as natural beauty returned to once barren soil. Erebor was restored to its full glory, it seemed, after cold months spent laboring and the return of the final families that had deigned to travel from Ered Luin and return to the eastern lands.

Fili turned his page, squinting as the movement had sunlight – what little permeated the leafy greenery of the tree he sat beneath – catching his eyes without the solid shade of his book. Beside him, Kili blew sharply at the wooden notch of the arrow he fletched, dark brows drawn together as he examined his work, subconsciously pawing at the long locks that danced in front of his eyes with the stirring of a gentle breeze. Fili could feel the rolling of abdominal muscles beneath his shoulders as Thorin leant across to comb the youngest’s hair into some order, watching from his place reclined comfortably against the king’s torso. Kili batted at his uncle’s hand, but he was smiling, bright and indomitable.

Upwards of a year had gone since Dáin’s blood had stained the stone of Erebor and with the warmer months, Fili found his aches and pains ebbing away. Dáin had struggled through a long winter and bouts of infection in the Ironhills, according to the word of mouth, but his survival had marked no dark day for the dwarvish people. Trade routes remained open and things went on, much as they had centuries ago, before the Great Cataclysm of their time.

The memories remained, however, and it was not strange for Fili to awake in the wee hours of the morning, gasping for breath and clutching at covers and the limbs of his uncle and brother. He would settle, though, with low words of assurance and warm bodies against his own, to wake with the dawn and find memories of Dáin, of cold stone and blood far from his thoughts, tucked behind better, brighter things.

Kili had asked him, when the nightmares had come more frequently and with great intensity, why he had stayed his hand. He asked what mercy there was to be had for those of violence and tyranny, and Fili found himself at a loss. He had not known, at that time, why he had spared Dáin’s life, why he had shown such calm amidst such chaos.

It had come to him with time.

It surfaced at night, pressed between tanned skin and ebony locks, and when Kili’s stubbornness reared its head and found its likeness, and some, in his uncle. He understood when Thorin returned to their chambers late at night, drained and frustrated, and the days when Kili seemed unable to sit still.   

They were flawed – all of them – stitched together with stubbornness, violence and greed. Thorin possessed within him a darkness, even with Erebor reclaimed and their people home once more. A life of death, loss and violence had molded him into the dwarf that sat upon the throne, made him dangerously possessive and fiercely protective and Kili took after his uncle in more than just looks.

If he’d known, understood, _seen_ less, Fili may have felt foreign for his calm – like an oddity in the line of Durin – but he saw clearly.

‘Tell him I’m right, Fili!’ Kili’s voice brought him back to the present, his brother tugging gently at one of the braids at his upper lip.

Fili struck out with his foot and the younger dwarf squawked at the unsophisticated attack, relinquishing his hold before leaning down to press their lips together. The older heir of Durin merely hummed in contentment, allowing Kili to kiss him lazily, wet and unhurried, like they had all the time in the world. Above them, Thorin chuckled.

‘I think you’re attempting to sway what should be an impartial party in this disagreement, you little imp.’

Kili’s grin was mischievous as he pulled back. 

‘Give it up, old man. You’ve lost this one.’

He was, Fili supposed, some kind of glue that kept things from flying apart, or a salve – something that took away the sting, and let things heal. Where Thorin and Kili proved themselves unstoppable forces, Fili aimed to be an immovable object.

In some odd way, he was essential and more. Where there was darkness, there had to be illumination. With blackness came light, and together they allowed things luminosity, allowed for things to shine.

Like gold.    


End file.
